Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(63)

“Sure. Why not.”

I ditch Duff at the door to the ladies’ room. But Rebecca is inside, reapplying her lipstick. “How’s he doing?” she asks me.

“Who?”

She rolls her eyes. “Eric. He’s been a bear this month. I think he’d dive out of the box headfirst if it meant he could play.”

“He didn’t share much,” I admit. “I got the macho brush off when I asked about his knee.”

“Men.” She blots her lipstick. “They won’t give him a timetable for returning to practice, yet. He’s frustrated.”

As a matter of fact, he did seem awfully brittle. “Was it a big surgery?”

“Not at all. But he was already having trouble with his right knee. So when his left ACL tore, it doubled his troubles.”

“Oh no!” I gasp. “His other knee? Not the one that was giving him trouble this summer?”

Becca’s eyes twinkle. “Did you have a summer fling with my hockey player, Alex? How did I not know this?”

“Well—” God, I don’t even know how to answer that. “Just a brief one?” I squeak.

“Fabulous!” Becca laughs. “You two would make a cute couple.”

“Not hardly.” I pat my belly. “This pretty much means I won’t be dating anyone for years.”

“I don’t know.” Becca caps her lipstick. “I’ve heard stranger stories.”

Well, I haven’t. And anyway, I have to pee. “I hope Eric gets some good news soon,” I say, hoping to shift the topic off of me and back onto him.

“These guys are used to a certain amount of pain and uncertainty,” Becca says. “But I’m worried about him. The doctor asked him to think about retirement, but he won’t have that conversation.”

“Retirement?” I freeze on the way into a stall. “Really?

Becca blots her lips. “He might need a surgery on the other knee, too.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

“Retirement happens to every athlete at some point,” Rebecca says. “Either they get cut because they’re not performing. Or—like Eric—they’re terrific players but an injury compromises their ability. It’s never easy.”

Of course I know she’s right. But I also know how much Eric must hate this. Hockey is everything to him.

Poor Eric.





22





Eric





I watch Alex leave the suite, because I can’t help myself. Her body is rounded in the middle. But it only makes her look more lush. She’s all curves and shiny hair. And the scent of her perfume is addling my brain.

The bodyguard gallops after her, holding the door, and then they disappear.

Fuck. I wish she hadn’t come tonight. While I’m sitting on my ass in a chair instead of down on that ice where I belong? It’s literally adding insult to my injury. I’m just off my crutches. There’s a cane on the floor beneath my seat. I can’t stand the sight of it.

Doc Herberts won’t even make a guess about when I can return to practice. And he still wants to talk about a second surgery on the other knee. But that one might be much worse. A month on crutches instead of a week. I’d lose the whole season.

Herberts hinted that I might want to consider retirement. I told him I’d retire when I was dead.

He didn’t laugh.

Alone now, I drop a hand to my right knee, which aches all the time. I grab the bottle of ibuprofen out of my pocket and dry swallow two of them.

When Alex returns, Nate buttonholes her. He asks her a question about a factory fire, and then asks her to sit with him.

Nobody distracts me during the third period. We eke out a win, which ought to make me happy. But I’m a grumpy bastard anyway, and not in the mood to celebrate with my teammates.

I wait in my seat as Alex and Nate leave the suite together. Can you blame me for not wanting to limp past Alex? When I finally walk out, the VIP mezzanine is mostly empty.

I’ve almost made it to the elevator when I hear the tapping of high heels coming my way. “Next time I come to the game, I’m sure you’ll be on skates.”

“You bet,” I mutter, hitting the elevator button.

We get into the elevator together. “Can I drop you somewhere?” Alex asks. “I could ask the driver to take the Manhattan bridge after we swing past your place.”

The truth is I don’t have a car lined up. And even if the circumstances suck, I don’t mind more time with Alex. “Can I hitch a ride to Manhattan?” I ask her. “I’m staying at my dad’s place for a few days.”

“How come?” Her forehead creases with concern. “Is he okay?”

“The old coot is fine, I promise.” It’s me with all the issues. “My apartment has a loft bed and my doctor doesn’t want me climbing stairs. I’m sick of my pull-out sofa.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Of course I’ll drop you at your father’s place. He lives in the West 70s, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.” We step into the elevator and I clear my throat. “No news tonight?”

Alex pulls her phone out and unlocks it. “Here. I got a call a few minutes ago but I didn’t look. Tell me who it’s from.”